(warning: uh, robotic foreplay? I dunno, but there's no actual sex here. I blame the fandom and certain irreverent and irrepressible friends for this. You know who you are.)
"Wait. Are you serious?"
"What possible reason would I have to lie?"
"Never?"
"Did I misspeak?"
The 'discussion' had been going on for a good three minutes so far-- rather long for their kind, but then, Whiplash relied heavily on English these days. It took longer to say anything, but for him, speaking in intelligible Cybertronian was... what was the word?... a crapshoot. And quite frankly, he'd rather not be speaking at all. He wanted to get back to his quarters so he could listen to the broadcast in peace.
"So you've never overloaded."
"I believe, Sideswipe, that is what I said."
The two warriors stood abreast the door, blocking the way out of the Ark's wash racks. Short of an unwarranted (and undignified) dash through their legs, Whiplash was trapped. And growing more annoyed by the moment. The local public radio station was going to run its weekly classical music show. Tonight it was to be Chopin, with discussion by human musical scholars. Five minutes and twenty-two seconds until it began, and these two had decided to interrogate him on such a trivial thing!
("Slaggit, you're older than us and you never once got even slightly tingly?") Sunstreaker laughed in a burst of Cybertronian, in a rare light mood. ("Next you'll tell us you've never had high-grade.")
"No, Sunny, there was that incident at Maccadam's. That one time with..."
("That was him?")
"I can think of hundreds of other things to better use my time and energy on," Whiplash snapped, perhaps a little too forcefully. "More productive things, I might add."
"You're not on the duty roster right now," Sideswipe pointed out, "and your human's off exchanging genetic material with that male, and that'll take all night. What've you got to do right this minute that's so important? Go recharge?"
Optics half-shuttered, Whiplash stalked pointedly towards them, intending to simply push through. The twins gave him enough grief about his tendency towards grievous malapropism. No telling what ill merriment they'd derive from his furtive passion for Earth's orchestral artistry.
("Oh, no, you don't. You're not getting out of this that easy, scout.") One of Sunstreaker's hands suddenly clamped around Whiplash's helm. He staggered under the larger robot's heavy grip, and before he could muster an appropriately indignant protest, Sideswipe stepped in and grabbed a shoulder strut, lifting him clear off the deck.
This must be how the humans feel, Whiplash mused, whenever a Cybertronian plucks them up and carts them around.
"This is absurd," he said. "And beyond rude, even for the likes of you two. I have never contemplated drawing a weapon on a fellow Autobot but I am sorely tempt&#!!"
Words dissolved into a burst of startled noise as Sunstreaker poked something just between the wheels mounted on his back. A jolt traveled up his dorsal column and radiated along the endostructure, leaving a strange pulsing warmth in its wake. Sensors thrummed, piqued.
Oh.
Oh.
Sunstreaker laughed. ("Primus, look at that! I think his faceplates're going to slide right off his head!")
"Come on now, Whip," Sideswipe cajoled as he set Whiplash back on suddenly unsteady feet. "It'll be fun, I promise. And if you don't like it, we'll never bug you about it again."
Sunstreaker ran a finger along the crest of Whiplash's helm, little arcs of energy setting his circuits abuzz. ("What is it the humans say? 'Don't knock it before you try it'?")
Dizzily, Whiplash had to give him that point-- logically sound, and after all, hadn't Perceptor taught him to be open to possibilities, to discount nothing until disproved? And as this was a simple matter of ascertaining his own personal opinion oh slag it all to the Pit, I have stored datatracks of Chopin.
"Very well."
Whiplash didn't know how or when his internal chronometer had gone offline, and normally such an oversight would be cause for concern, but...
A hum, a wordless low-pitched chord, escaped his vocalizer.
...he couldn't bring himself to care, quite yet.
("Well, that was unexpected.")
"I know, right? I knew he was good on his feet, but I never guessed he'd be good with his feet..."
"Why are you surprised?" Whiplash murmured lazily from where he lay draped over the prone Sideswipe's back. "I am constructed for dexterity."
("What'd he say?")
"Overload must've tripped that word problem thing he has. Oh, slag, you think we broke him?"
"My audios function perfectly, you glorified golf carts." Gleefully aware that he was speaking utter nonsense, Whiplash reached down, his small, nimble hands finding a neural cluster deep underneath the larger robot's armor. Sideswipe bucked in surprise, emitting a staticky shriek. Sunstreaker twitched, laughing, the pleasure transmitted along their shared bond node.
("Slagging fast learner.") The golden twin pushed himself off the deck plating and none-too-gently gave the smaller robot a shove. ("Well? Fun, yes?")
Whiplash tumbled off Sideswipe and tried to objectively evaluate the experience. But with his entire sensor net still humming delighted echoes to his processor it was hard to be objective. Really, hard to process much, in fact. The strain and energy expenditure made him feel sluggish, another sensation that should alarm him, especially since sluggishness could get him killed.
But hmmmmm, Sunstreaker's lateral arrays, Sideswipe and those hands...
His chronometer came back online just then. He'd missed the Chopin.
Primus, I'm not programmed for these emotional dilemmas.